


when i found my way to you

by onefortheluna



Category: Naruto
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, Character Development, Character Study, Dating, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Haruno Sakura-centric, Love, Personal Growth, Romance, Sakura is a doctor, Sasuke is the modern equivalent to ANBU, Strangers to Lovers, mature - Freeform, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onefortheluna/pseuds/onefortheluna
Summary: She finds him in an alleyway one night. Backed against the wall. Bleeding, bruised and most likely very broken.Logically, she should make a run for it and call the ambulance instead.But there's something about Sakura. Specifically in times like these.She doesn't think. She just does.Crouched beside the wounded, she assesses everything.Him. Tall, fit, young, dark haired. Good looking and visually admirable, she has to admit, in an alarmingly angelic way and also gravely injured. Dressed in heavy all black gear. With a gunshot to the gut.Her. Tiny, small, young and wild haired. Hyperventilating and in high distress honestly, she fails to lie to herself to keep calm, like never before in her life and also seriously mortified. Dressed in a sweaty pharmacists coat. With blood stains on it.... she's in deepshit.How does something both unexpectable and beautiful like trust and love bloom out of this chance encounter?
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke
Comments: 16
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Yes, new sasusaku. I'm one large mess.
> 
> Again, it's a modern AU with Sakura as a doctor and Sasuke as some sort of private military officer, but both with a little twist hehe.
> 
> This piece is alot lighter than love happens, which honestly I am having trouble proceeding with for how darkly angsty I originally planned it to be vs what the audience expect to see. Don't worry though, I'll figure a way to tackle both these factors.
> 
> So, this is a practice of sorts for me, on writting lighter pieces, an attempt at me not giving our lovely characters the most tragic scenarios to tackle. Haha.
> 
> The main focus of the story is just falling in love, the gradualprocess of getting closer to someone. It's love, trust, vulnerability, little joy, and just domesticity.
> 
> Now, please leave a kudos and a comment if it's your cup of tea and if you would like to see more! It means so much to me. 
> 
> Anyways. Enjoy. Here we go!

1

She finds him in alleyway one night.

It's dark and late. It's also cold and the clouds grumble ominously- it's about to rain, and he's hurt and bleeding.

It all boils down to the fact that she couldn't possibly leave him there all on his own.

So she coaxes her frozen feet to move, and she crouches upon reaching the prone form backed in a hunch against the murky wall. 

Upon closer inspection- it's a gun shot wound.

Logically, she should make a run for it and call the ambulance instead.

But there's something about Sakura. Specifically in times like this.

She doesn't think. She just does. 

It's not easy. 

The lady on shift at the pharmacy looks at her weird when she storms in breathing heavy and soaking wet. She's left in sputters when she rushes out the store without paying, telling her to cut off her pay for the next few following days, arm full of bandages and alcohol and all the things one would most probably need to nurse a gun shot wound.

She isn't weak, but she might have overestimated her capability to drag an unconscious grown man up the stairs of her apartment in the dark with her hands already full.

It's a task. Lots of trial and error. 

She only drops him twice. It could've been worse.

Still, it doesn't stop her from muttering frantic apologies. It slips her mind that he can't hear her more times than she can count.

Finally, they make it.

The lights are out at her apartment. She's yet to pay the bill. So she has to make do with what little street light that streams through the balcony. 

She's set him at the makeshift bed couch in the living room, the perfect spot. The light hits just right. She needs to draw the curtain, a gauzy white, to prevent contamination by the heavy air, but it won't hinder her sight anymore than the dark already barely does.

Crouched beside the wounded, she assesses everything.

Him. Tall, fit, young, dark haired. Good looking and visually admirable, she has to admit, in an alarmingly angelic way and also gravely injured. Dressed in heavy all black gear. With a gunshot to the gut.

Her. Tiny, small, young and wild haired. Hyperventilating and in high distress honestly, she fails to lie to herself to keep calm, like never before in her life and also seriously mortified. Dressed in a sweaty pharmacists coat. With blood stains on it.

For a minute she just breathes.

She's in deepshit. But.

Everything is perfect.

She has the tools. He's laying there motionless.

She stares at the gaping wound. Her palms sweat over her thighs.

It's been a while.

She's never given up being able to save lives. But she's not sure she knows how to be a surgeon anymore. 

Praying to the heavens, she shuts her eyes.

She picks at her brain- sifts through knowledge on prescription and over the counter diagnosing. And she reaches for the bits buried under all that, of scalpels and incisions and blood and stitching.

She spends a while there, in her head. But when her eyes fly open, she wastes no more time.

She's quick but thorough in her prep; getting her hair out of the way and washing the sweat off her face. Scrubbing her hands clean and slipping on the gloves. The mask goes on next and then she's back at her station.

With a soft exhale she goes in.

She reaches for alcohol and cotton, and gently she begins working around the wound.

She works automatically, glancing up at the wounded man's face every now and then whenever there's a muted hiss or a sudden wince. Under her breathe, she mutters an apology and continues working the tweezer with steady hands. 

Perspiration gathers at her forehead, dampening her hair. Wether it's heat or pressure, she can't find it in herself to be concerned. It's an odd sensation, something distantly familiar. Just like how her memory guides her hands into successfully extracting the bullet out. Even the stitch she makes soon after is close to perfect.

For a minute she can breathe again. Laboured and shallow. But she can breathe proper and it feels great. Relief floods her veins. His own breathing is a stark contrast. Soft and steady.

It's perfect. He's okay. 

She collapses after discarding the gloves against the coffee table that shrieks upon impact and exhales deeply under the cover of her messy hair.

He's okay. 

A glad smile stretches on her lips as she chances a glance at the man lying at her couch. Fast asleep.

She saved a life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> New chapter, this time it's from Sasuke's POV.
> 
> Now, I usually have no problem writting him out as is, but I struggle with delving into his thoughts.
> 
> The aftermath of Sakura's actions and Sasuke's first seeing Sakura hoho
> 
> That being said, this was neccasary and so I did what I did the best that I could, but do let me know if there's anything I could do to improve writting Sasuke! 
> 
> Thank You for all the support you've given this piece so far! Please continue to love it and show it love always!

2

Morning comes and like routine his eyes shoot open.

The first thing that registers in his mind is the events of the previous night. The target had been taken down, mission completed. But he never got to report to his post. He had been shot.

The second is that the ceiling isn't familiar. It isn't the dark wood of his home, it isn't the obnoxious sunshine yellow at Naruto's either. It's a serene white.

The third is that where he is sure he should be bleeding his guts out, he isn't. Though instead, there's a subtle warm weight over his abdomen.

Briefly, he registers his surroundings- a homey, small apartment with milky brown walls, as his eyes fall onto the spot.

It's his hand. Above another. Small. Really small. Dwarfed under his in a way that is almost unbelievable. His gaze travels up the length of the slender arm connected to the hand, and he soon finds himself looking at a mass of messy pink hair.

He blinks and frowns.

Just... what happened?

Just then, the person stirs. The little hairs on his body stand.

Momentarily, he's alerted, tensing with his breath held as their hair sways over their face and shoulders while they shift. But then they stop.

He exhales out softly, throwing his head back against the stiff armrest. He relaxes until his heartbeat is regular again.

With unexplainable dread out of the way for now, his eyes fall on the person again. And he strains his eyes to get a good look at them-her through the veil of pink- though he never does as she just shifts and burries her face further into her hair while she mumbles.

But as if in answer to the question that had almost slipped his mind, when she shifts, he is greeted by the sight of all sorts of medical equipments alongside some bloody bandages over the shockingly colourful mass of hair.

Moving his eyes a little more, he finds a bloody, messily discarded medical coat splayed across the coffee table. 

Ah.

Makes sense.

For a moment, he just lays there.

He should leave promptly and report.

But instead, he observes her in the silence.

She stirs alot, and it takes him watching her try to adjust into a comfartable position while sat on the floor several times too many for him to sigh mentally and sit up.

Her hand slips off his wound, a movement that catches him so off guard, because he had forgotten and also it feels oddly unprotected with it gone, but he quickly disregards his thoughts after momentarily stilling with a shake of his head.

As quitely as possible, he sets his feet on the ground, all the while being careful not to make a sound while watching her form, and gently, he carries her and tucks her to his chest as he stands.

There's a dull throb at his wrapped abdomen, but nothing that can deter him from setting her on the bed properly and pulling the covers over her.

With that done out of courtesy, he's good to go. But he finds himself motionless, hovering over her. 

He can see her face.

It's round, with a smooth wide forehead and a dipping chin. Her brows are as dawny and gentle as her lashes are, an off brown shade that frame her closed eyes well. Her hair is splayed over the pillow like endless sunrise rose waves, long silken straw brushing her cheeks. Her expression is serene, and despite the light shuffle of her full lips that pout naturally, she looks the perfect picture of an angel at rest.

It strikes him in a light, gentle way that's pleasant as it spreads in his bones.

She's pretty. 

Once again, she shifts, this time onto her side, and she almost knees him in the crotch in the process. He moves back just in time, one second right before his demise.

Thank God, his reflex doesn't fail him even while entranced. With a light huff and tug in the corner of his lips, he tilts his head and observes her at his full height.

She remains unbothered, looking so small and vulnerable while clinging onto a stray pillow, shimmying into the blankets.

It's past 8 am on a weekday. Yet, he couldn't find it in him to wake her up.

She must be tired.

Plus, he owes her a big one.

So he leaves her to sleep. And he leaves.

But not without leaving a note on the fridge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Hello.
> 
> Now, not much to say here, but meet me in the ending notes.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy this and take care. I plan to be a lot more active now. Please support! Comment, kudos, anything. Makes my day! 💜

3

She works into the night shift for weeks.

It's dreadful. But she had seen this coming. 

She didn't have the money to compensate all that she swept through off the counter that night, so this is how she repays. With her time.

Usually, she would have been zoning out between patients. She still hasn't gotten quite used to being a behind the counter doctor. 

However, her phone has been buzzing lately.

The smile that finds it's way on her lips whenever she flips it over after tending to a patient is completely unconscious.

It started with a simple silly text.

_-Hey. It's me. I don't think you really know me, but I treated you last night? Anyways I wanted to check if you were alright?-_

It was clumsy. Rambly. Very much her. She erased and typed and erased and typed again and again but it still came out like that.

It had felt like an eternity waiting for a response. She had expected something detached and prompt. Like an I'm okay. Or simply thanks. Or none at all. He seemed the type. Cool and icy. Nonchalant and borderline indifferent or straight up jerky. He might have left his number on her fridge but men are both predictable and strange.

It had taken 30 minutes. And she had gotten a response. 

Now, it was an _-'I'm okay.'-_

But also with an -' _I remember you.'-_ Along with - _'Thank you.'-_ And also, - _'Sorry for the late response. I was in a meeting.'-_

But that wasn't it.

The icing on the cake?

_-'Hope you are well too.'-_

To say she had been taken off guard would have been an understatement.

Now. She hadn't know this dude. He hadn't known her.

They had no obligation to actually care for each other beyond the inherent human capacity.

But she had found herself typing a response after staring at her screen 30 minutes and rereading it plenty times in many different reenaction of how she imagined him to sound when speaking, completely natural as though she had been chatting to a dear close friend or partner of a lifetime.

Time flew by like a breeze. Pleasant, but too quickly gone since then.

By the time she's out her shift near dawn, she still has her phone clutched in her hands, a soft smile on her face, thumb pressing onto the letters on the screen as she strolls to her apartment.

He's an interesting person.

Chill, relaxed and carefree in a way that isn't typically overwhelming and exaggerated. He doesn't say too much, but he responds to every point she makes, every enquiry she has. He pays attention well and is a good listener, in an earnest kind of way.

They talk about everything and anything beneath the sky. Late night banter and daytime chatter. The deep, the casual and the useless.

Slowly, he becomes a part of her everyday. A natural routine, a constant presence. 

For a moment, it's easy to forget how they met.

Fresh out of the shower, laying in her bed, with her phone resting close under her pillow. The last thought swimming through her head just before she falls asleep is just how did he end up in a secluded alleyway with a gunshot.

Either way, she doesn't let it bother her anyways.

She'll ask him when they meet over the weekend.


End file.
